


Pinned down

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 2: Queens' Play, Building Collapse, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Major Character Injury, Prompt Fill, Roof Collapse, Sabotage, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2021-01-26 22:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: An old church roof collapses on an illicit gig in East Berlin. Oonagh O'Dwyer is first on the scene, and she's looking for one body in particular among the rubble.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 6
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Pinned down

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted in tumblr, October 16 2019.](https://notasapleasure.tumblr.com/post/188383238781/whumptober-16)

The solid beams that had survived wartime bombs took their repose where they could. Betrayed by the quiet hand of sabotage, they emerged from the sea of rubble with aspects of surprise: a child's game of pick-up-sticks left abandoned. They occupied a No Man's Land made of shattered stone and stagnant pools of dust and plaster, and the church that had stood for six centuries now resembled a building in the way that a gorge resembles a mountain.

It was silent but for the hiss and click of rubble settling and the muted background noise coming from the other city. Watchtower lights flickered like moths at the edges of the destruction, but they did not intrude on the business of accident - their concern was for deliberate escapes only.

Forty people had been smuggled into the dark cavern of worship, and forty people were trapped when the world turned inside out. Bodies, hearts, souls pulsing along to contraband noise smuggled in from the West: the youth of the GDR simply wanted to forget about their lives for the length of a set. The black-haired man armed with a keyboard and two Theremins simply wanted to oblige them. The signature work of Thady Boy Ballaght produced, as one reviewer noted disdainfully, 'a mesh of unendurable sound to drive the mind mad'. Under laser beams and candelabras, bass had shaken dry mortar from stones and screeching electronics had driven the bats from the rafters. PVC squeaked against leather, denim scuffed against corduroy, and skin slipped over skin.

Acts of private worship were overlooked by the authorities.

The music had masked any warning signs, expanding to press against the ribs of the building like a held breath. It had seemed not to cause the destruction so much as to delay it, to hold up the spars of wood and stone arches until the strength of the muse gave out with a dizzying yelp from the Theremin and time blinked and reset itself. Then the roof had fallen quickly, bringing down the tops of the walls and the neglected, yellowing glass of windows. Grey dust enfolded the colour and stilled the life below.

And after that initial shock of crescendo it seemed as though the building had always been a ruin. Pinned beneath the wreckage, the flower of rebellion did not even have the strength to moan or call out. Close up, the empty streets might have glanced in on feathers settling; dark blood glittering as dust powdered its surface.

The vigil of the streets was interrupted when Oonagh O'Dwyer stepped out of her car. Her driver knew well enough to follow at a distance as she stalked across the scattered stones on the pavement. Her arms were folded, hands to her elbows, and her gait echoed short, sharp steps around the gaping maw of the ruined church.

She paused in the entrance, glancing up at the dark sky. No stars were visible: it was a perfectly grey, dull night that now roofed the interior of the wreck. Oonagh grimaced, ox-blood lipstick a striking line across her pale face. Satisfied that no more of the building looked about to give way, she picked her way to the chancel slowly. She stood only on the patches of original floor that could be seen, and looked down just often enough to place her black booted toes carefully between shapes she had no interest in identifying.

The keyboard's shattered body told her when she had come upon the right place. Oonagh stopped and made a pact with herself. If he lives. Only if he lives.

Pinned down by a leg only, the other body looked like a cast from Pompeii. He had been frozen in the desperate, tragi-comedic melodrama of bargaining: face-down, hands clawing at stone, trying to drag himself free of the timber shackle. Oonagh crouched and swiftly touched two fingers to his neck, flinching back and standing with a seamless creaking of knee-high boots when the pulse was confirmed.

The pact was sealed then. Oonagh glanced back at her driver and nodded once, brusquely.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘a mesh of unendurable sound to drive the mind mad’ is a quote from the scene this is inspired by in Queens' Play.


End file.
